I've inscribed stanzas upon my heart, in
tiny letters to beguile you near, to
put in pain the fervor I endure, when
the aim of my desire is cold; is you.
My self-lacerations scab and I peel,
to keep fresh these scars which speak of an us,
no physician sought; only you can heal,
my festering lesions, dripping with pus.
Wound for a wound: all things commensurate,
thus my scribe to your flesh does take it's turn,
contempt of my quill quite inveterate.
Passion is passion; may your fire burn.
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